


Kissing it better

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fits with Canon, Greg is here so everything will be alright, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, They met through Sherlock, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Greg is used by now to being summoned to the dankest and dreariest places in and around London. He knows there's bound to be something surprising about it too. He'd not expected this, however.For n_a, who has such faith in me. Thank you for bidding on me, I hope you like this one <3
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 42
Kudos: 271
Collections: Rupert Graves 56th Birthday Collection





	Kissing it better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).

_19:37 [Location attached] Go check – SH_

_19:37 Kiss it better – SH_

A quick call to John confirms that they found the hide-out of the people they were chasing and now Sherlock had run off again and John was trying to keep up. Nobody ever seemed to be included in Sherlock’s mad plans but that doesn’t help Greg when he is cold and tired and it’s too dark to do anything about the potential crime scene anyway. He doesn’t want to bring out the full bells and whistles if it won’t be necessary, back-up would take ages to get here and the warehouse looks deserted. Greg is still trying to make sure he really is alone here when his flashlight catches on a body, all the way to the back of the echoing hall. Shit.

“I don’t think ‘kissing it better’ is going to work in this case.” Greg mumbles when he walks up to whoever is flat on his back in a dirty warehouse too far away from anywhere useful. If only Sherlock could pick his fuck-up places a bit better, maybe he wouldn’t be alone to check if any clues remain after the git’s already taken off again. He realizes two things at the same time, and almost freezes in panic. This is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, who for the first time in their acquaintance, hasn’t replied to something Greg said. Cold fear trickles down Greg’s back immediately. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he hisses, rushing closer, the light from his flashlight dancing around Mycroft’s (very pale) face and the (still bleeding) wound on his head. He kneels down and calls 999 immediately, rattling off details and thanking the operator even as he’s checking Mycroft’s (too fast) pulse, and feels his (clammy) skin.

“Don’t move him,” he tells himself. Could have a neck or back injury, or just any break he shouldn’t be jostling. Ambulance will be a while. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it over Mycroft, praying it’ll keep him warmer than his no-longer-pristine suit. Not much else to do. He holds his hand over Mycroft’s ribs, where they rise and fall, just to make sure he’s still breathing, and therefore knows immediately when Mycroft wakes up from the change in the pattern.

“Hey,” Greg says, as calmly as he can manage in the sodden dark warehouse in the middle of utterly nowhere, “you should probably not move, you’ve got a head injury, but as far as I can tell we’re otherwise safe and alone.”

Mycroft exhales, a little wheezy breath of relief and Greg remembers he’s touching him still. “Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asks, his eyes firmly closed. Greg hums. “As far as I can remember Sherlock pursued my attacker, they should be gone.”

“That’s good,” Greg tells him, still not moving his hand. The in-and-out soothes his nerves, the alert he feels in the echoing darkness of the warehouse. “There’s an ambulance on the way for you. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

“Nauseous,” Mycroft answers. “Cold, pain, but only in my head. I am feeling rather like I might fall asleep.”

That is a bit worrying. “Let me help you sit up,” Greg suggests, “you really shouldn’t sleep.”

Mycroft blinks his eyes open. It’s hard to tell much in the dim light, but it is obvious he is not feeling well. Mycroft carefully rolls his head back and forth before accepting Greg’s hand and letting himself be pulled up to sitting. He winces violently and presses a hand to his ribs. Breathes in and out as if to test whether they’re bruised or broken. He’s clearly hoping to sit up straight, but his face is pinched with pain and he can’t hide the way he’s starting to shiver.

Greg doesn’t need to think before crawling over to the other side of Mycroft. “Lean against me,” he suggests, when he’s sitting with his back against the wall, his legs spread. Mycroft hesitates, looks like he might argue, and still lets himself get pulled in by Greg. With some manoeuvring they manage sitting, if stiffly and uncomfortably, and when Greg tries to get his jacket to cover Mycroft again, it requires wrapping his arms around him. He decides to keep them there, for support and warmth, and soon feels Mycroft start to sink into him.

“Apologies,” Mycroft says, after a beat of silence, “I feel I’m being terribly demanding already but – if you would, that is...” He swallows audibly.

“Anything,” Greg tells him. He means it too. He likes Mycroft, trusts him even, ever since he’s started noticing the way Mycroft would do no matter what for Sherlock. Doesn’t mind his warmth or the smell of his cologne in the least. Wants to help. “Tell me?”

“Could you talk to me?” Mycroft asks, his voice smaller than before. Greg swallows. Normally he tries not to – talk around Mycroft, that is. Surely Mycroft doesn’t need to hear his take on things. With his eye on the possible concussion however, and the next thirty minutes or so they’ll be spending like this until the ambulance can find them, he nods.

“Let me tell you,” he starts. “About the warmest I’ve ever felt in my life.” He tells Mycroft the whole story of his first time working inside a tent during summer as a uniformed officer, in his thick woollen tunic and trousers, because his summer uniform had been at his mum’s for washing. He doesn’t leave out any details, tells the story through all the way up to the sound his sodden trousers had made when they hit the linoleum floor of the shit dorm he was living in at the time when he finally got to take everything off at the end of the day. He worries that Mycroft will find it a horribly boring story, but doesn't get any complaints of _boring_. He even feels Mycroft huff out in amusement once or twice. With careful fingers he keeps track of Mycroft’s temperature and heart rate, hoping he won’t need to be treated for shock also, pushing hair that’s starting to curl a bit away from his forehead. Breathing softly as Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. The only warmth he feels is between them, where they touch, as the concrete wall and floor seeps his heat and makes his muscles stiff and his skin sore.

He couldn’t say why, but the next story he tells Mycroft is about the place he moved into after the shitty dorm. Then the flat Sophie and him had bought together and the one after, the one he’s lived in since the divorce. “Can’t stand linoleum anymore though,” he tries to joke, “’s the only thing I changed when I moved to the new place. Can’t stand going backwards.” Mycroft doesn’t laugh.

“Are you...” Mycroft breathes in deep, shivers and coughs. Greg winces in sympathy with his painful ribs. “Are you there alone?”

“Yeah,” Greg answers. Then he tries to look for a way to change the topic, to get back to entertaining Mycroft enough to keep him awake. Finds himself wanting to be honest instead. “Was nice at first, not to have to tiptoe,” he muses, “but then... no one to call on when life happens.”

The sound of approaching sirens surprises them both and the twitch of Mycroft in his arms as he tries to move ends with another gasp of pain. Greg remembers that the ambulance thinks they’re here for someone passed out with unknowable injuries, feels a little bad for not updating them about the situation. He slowly and carefully helps Mycroft up to standing, supports him as they make their way to the doors of the warehouse. Ready to hand him off to far more capable hands. Outside, a bit away from the bustle of responders, before Mycroft lets anyone look at his injuries, he looks at Greg. Deep intense eyes, flashing with the lights of the ambulance. The sharp angles of his face. Greg swallows.

Mycroft sways a little closer, kisses Greg neatly on the cheekbone. “You can always call me, Detective Inspector,” he promises, voice soft and warm. It seems to be heavy with feeling, and Greg decides to take a chance. In and out, Lestrade.

“Mycroft,” Greg says, stopping him in his tracks. “I’ll come to hospital with you. But you’ll have to call me Greg.” Mycroft's eyes crinkle a little at that. A grateful nod. When Greg sits on the little seat in the back of the ambulance, watching Mycroft’s exhausted and pained face with hot tenderness in his stomach, he takes his hand and kisses the clammy knuckles. Hopes it makes it a little better.


End file.
